


breathe, my love, let's all be spent

by la_victorienne



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Facials, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-16
Updated: 2011-02-16
Packaged: 2018-10-15 10:40:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10554954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_victorienne/pseuds/la_victorienne
Summary: Lazy Sunday, and it's raining, and they've only just officially moved in together, and this is looking like it might be forever. Naturally, this means sex, sex, facials (accidental and otherwise), and more sex.





	

Sunday, Eames thinks, blinking awake into the nape of Arthur's neck, the curl of his hair. It's raining, he can hear it, and he smiles into Arthur's skin, tightening the arm around his waist. "Morning," he whispers, kissing Arthur's neck warmly, until he feels the sleepy stir, the mumble and roll. He makes room, presses in to Arthur's space, mouths his jaw.  
  
" 'Mes," Arthur mumbles. Eames hums, nudging Arthur's nose with his own, until Arthur's hand finds the back of his head and pulls him down.  
  
"Happy Sunday," he murmurs into Arthur's mouth.  
  
"Mm," Arthur replies, warm under Eames' hands, utterly unresisting as Eames throws his leg over Arthur's hips, strokes his hands down Arthur's ribcage, presses the cleft of his arse against Arthur's cock. "Morning breath," Arthur does say, frowning until Eames licks the foul taste out of his mouth and shifts again, teasing, making Arthur moan and buck into it.  
  
"That's better," Eames says, sucking on Arthur's lower lip, and grins, fumbling in the bedside table. "I have plans for you, Mr Arthur," he continues, reaching back with slick fingers, teasing himself back open. "Rainy Sunday plans, and you'll just have to go along with them."  
  
"Mmh," Arthur replies, eyes glazed and sleepy, mouth parted. "Can't believe—here, I want to."  
  
Eames shakes his head. "Too late," he says with a smirk, kissing the look of surprise right off of Arthur's mouth as he rolls on a condom and sinks down. It's a little too soon, but it's worth the sound of Arthur's sharp hiss, worth the way his fingers tighten on Eames' hips.  
  
"Fuck," Arthur chokes out. "Fuck—Eames, _Eames_."  
  
"And this is only the start," Eames says, smug, conspiratorial. "You have no idea what I have in mind for you today."  
  
"Jesus Christ, Eames, I don't care—move, fuck, just move."  
  
Eames grins wolfishly and does, a slow glide that has Arthur both incoherent and panting within seconds. He loves that he can do this, can take Arthur utterly to pieces, strip away all the carefully constructed comprehension and control, leaving him—leaving them both—a quivering mess. He's never wanted anyone so much as this, never believed he'd actually get it, and even though they've been in this—whatever it is—no, it's a relationship, they're in a goddamn relationship—for months, it's still a surprise. That Arthur is his. That he'll never be anyone else's—never.  
  
"Faster," Arthur moans, hands on Eames' hips, thumbs brushing over the bones. "Faster, I need—I want to feel you."  
  
"Yeah, all right," Eames replies, the tension building in the pit of his belly, arse clenching erratically around Arthur as he rocks back and forth, shifts in tiny circles, sits as far onto Arthur as he can go before lifting almost all the way up. "Come on," he says, when he hears the hitch in Arthur's breath that means he's close. "Come on, want to feel it, want to feel you."  
  
"Fuck, Eames—" Arthur says, pushing his hips up into Eames, hard, one hand curling around Eames' cock as he comes.  
  
"Fuck, _Arthur_ ," Eames echoes, and he's coming too, swearing like it's a surprise, throwing his head back as he spurts on to Arthur's chest before collapsing into his arms.  
  
"You're fucking ridiculous," Arthur accuses. Eames shrugs, sort of, and rubs the half-beard on his cheek against Arthur's shoulder.  
  
"Good thing you like me anyway," he mumbles.  
  
"Yeah, well. Stuck with you now."  
  
"Too right, love. Too right."  
  
Arthur waits—Eames can feel it, can almost hear him counting the breaths until he can move—and finally pushes at Eames' shoulders, reaching down. "Gonna pull out now, okay? Fucking ridiculous, almost no prep—are you okay? Hurt at all? I'll never forgive you."

" 'M fine," Eames mumbles, blinking the post-orgasmic haze out of his eyes. "Better than fine. Give us a kiss, I'll prove it."

"Roll over, asshole," Arthur replies, condom held delicately in one hand as he pushes Eames onto his back and kisses him, hard. "Still can't fucking believe you," he mutters, sliding out of bed towards the bathroom. Eames just smiles, waiting for him to come back with a warm cloth, and thinks—yeah. I love you, too.

 

 

They lie there for nearly an hour before Arthur’s stomach rumbles under Eames’ ear. Eames laughs, turns his head, kisses Arthur’s navel before sitting up. “No, stay here,” he says, even though he knows Arthur won’t listen. “Already put the pancake batter together, just have to cook them.”

Arthur follows anyway, sitting bare-arsed on the counter beside Eames as he cooks, the bowl of batter in his lap. He doesn’t speak, really, just watches Eames work, occasionally brushing a hand over the tattoo on his bicep, the faded curls of the winking Knave of Hearts. With anyone else--had there ever been anyone else Eames might make breakfast for, save his sister--he would be preening, making a show of himself as he does all the rest of the time. But that’s not--Arthur doesn’t need that, the performance or show. Eames has never felt so naked, flipping pancakes onto a plate, grinning with the thrill of it. “Okay,” he says when he’s done. “I have a strawberry syrup, too, if you like.”

“You’ve been busy, haven’t you?” Arthur asks, but he’s not smiling. “I’m sorry I haven’t been here. Work has just been--” He stops short, looking down at the empty bowl in his lap.

“Stop it,” Eames murmurs, hands on Arthur’s face, leaning in for a long kiss. “Not today. You’re here today, and I’m not letting you out of my sight. Now, regular syrup or strawberry?”

Arthur’s face twists, as if he has something to say, but Eames kisses him again, instead, coaxing his mouth open, until Arthur puts the bowl to the side and twines his legs around Eames’ waist, holding on. Eames just grabs the pancakes and syrup bottle with one hand and hefts under Arthur’s arse with the other, stumbling back towards the bedroom.

“The sheets,” Arthur protests, as he is tipped back into the pillows.

“We’ll do laundry.” Eames bounces into sitting, nudging Arthur upright, flipping open the cap of the syrup.

“You’re kidding me, right? Eames, you are not getting syrup all over these sheets. They’re thousand thread count.”

Eames grins and tilts the syrup over the plate. “Watch me.”

Arthur’s protests of “Cutlery, Eames, get a fork,” are muffled by the first bite of pancake Eames presses against his mouth. Eames doesn’t even wince when Arthur’s teeth graze his fingers.

 

 

“Run a bath, I’ll do the sheets.”

“Are you sure?”

“My fault they’re dirty, my job to wash. You go relax, I’ll join you in a moment.”

“Mm, yeah, okay. Thanks, Eames.”

“Of course, love.”

“Hurry.”

 

 

Eames climbs into the bathtub, settling between Arthur’s splayed legs, his head against Arthur’s shoulder. They doze in the steam-filled bathroom, sweaty foreheads pressed against each other, until the water goes cold and their fingers are pruny. Eames loves this, the constant connection, never leaving off from touching each other, always a heartbeat away.

“We should move, Eames,” Arthur says against his eyelid.

“Ten more minutes,” Eames protests, but he moves when Arthur shoves at his shoulders, because he always does what Arthur asks. And when Arthur passes him the book they’ve been reading and arches an eyebrow, Eames just grins, rather than tell him finishing it was in his Sunday plans all along.

 

 

They can hear the rain the best in the sunroom, so Eames arranges Arthur’s head in his lap and props his bare feet on the wicker table and reads for hours, hand resting on Arthur’s chest when he’s not turning the pages. It’s _Jane Eyre_ , and they’ve both read it before, but Arthur still frowns at all the places he hates and fidgets all the way through the St. John episodes, because for all he denies it, he still thinks Eames is Jane.

“It’s all right, darling, you know the ending is happy,” he finally says, when he’s afraid the furrow in Arthur’s brow might become permanent.

“Fuck off, I’m ordering Chinese,” Arthur replies, and if he pulls a tissue from the box Eames keeps here as he goes, Eames won’t say anything.

 

 

Eames is just finishing the book when the food arrives, smelling good enough they can’t wait to get it to the kitchen and spread it on the living room coffee table instead, sitting cross-legged on the floor and jabbing each other with the chopsticks.

“Thank you,” Arthur says, with a mouth full of egg foo yung, and Eames hears I love you.

“Of course,” Eames replies, muching his Mongolian beef, and it means I love you, too. Arthur smiles and flicks soy sauce onto his face, which leads to a good-natured wrestle on the floor, the remains of their dinner forgotten.

At least until--”Ow, fuck, I’m too old for this,” Eames protests. “Uncle, uncle, mother of god.”

“Giving up, old man?” Arthur taunts, straddling Eames’ hips on the carpet, rice in his hair. He has that look in his eye, the one he gets when he’s about to do something utterly surprising, and Eames runs a hand up Arthur’s thigh.

“I give,” Eames says hoarsely, because he does, he truly does, gives it all, gives everything, everything he has and more. He’ll give his life to Arthur, for Arthur, and gladly, because he’s never felt like this with anyone before, and he knows full well he’ll never feel like this for anyone again. Arthur is special--Arthur is _his_.

Arthur just smiles, mouth twisting slyly, and leans into Eames’ body, pressing a kiss to his mouth, short and warm before he starts to move. He shifts back, presses kisses down the line of Eames’ throat, fumbles the buttons of his shirt, and Eames squirms.

“Arthur, Arthur. This wasn’t in the plan.”

“Fuck the plan,” Arthur says, although it’s muffled through the tongue tracing the line of Eames’ _Hamlet_ tattoo. “Don’t care. Spoiling me too much, need to do some--mm--spoiling of my own.”

“It’s not--I don’t keep _count_ , fuck,” Eames pants, because Arthur’s tugging at his waistband, breathing warm puffs over the head of his cock, and he’s losing any hint of coherency he might have had.

“No, I’m sure you don’t. Now kindly shut up, Mr Eames,” Arthur says, and then his mouth is on Eames in earnest, suckling just the head, lapping up every drop of Eames’ smeared precome. Eames groans back into the carpet, his eyes rolling back, in his head, and he swears.

“Jesus, darling, what--” It’s lost in the press of Arthur’s fingers against his mouth, and Eames opens, sucking obligingly. When they’re good and wet Arthur pulls them back and teases against the pucker of Eames’ arse as he sucks.

“Ready?” Arthur says hoarsely. Eames just nods, waiting for the breach, the burn, prepared for it when Arthur mouths around the head of his cock and curls a finger into his body.

“Fuck, Arthur,” Eames sighs, hand in Arthur’s hair. Arthur just smirks up at him, curling a second finger into his body, searching for the nub of nerves that makes Eames’ back arch and his fingers twitch. “Jesus, fuck,” Eames says again, aching, desperate. This wasn’t in the plan, but Eames isn’t complaining, spoiled as he is by Arthur’s persistence and control, by the way Arthur can take him in hand--or mouth--and turn Eames to jelly in minutes. And Eames is jelly, shaking and sweating under Arthur, caught between the press of his ruthless, arching fingers and the sweet, hot suction of his tongue, swearing in a stream as he tries to buck his hips, held down by Arthur’s other hand.

“Look at you,” Arthur says lowly, hoarse from the slide of Eames’ cock against his tongue. “Think you’re so clever, with your plans and your pancakes and your romance novels.”

“Literature,” Eames protests, weakly. “It was literature.”

“Shut up,” Arthur hisses, curling his fingers in once, and Eames gives a full-body shudder and whines. “I wasn’t finished. You think you’re so clever, don’t you, Eames? Don’t you? I have news for you--you can plan anything you want, can plan the rest of our lives, if you want, and I’ll go along with most of it--but don’t forget, I’ll always have a few surprises of my own.” He sucks hard on the head of Eames’ cock, just once, and pulls off just to grin wolfishly up Eames’ body.

“That’s true, darling,” Eames pants, “absolutely true, but I should warn you--”

“Shut up,” Arthur repeats, twisting his fingers again, and Eames--well, Eames comes on his face.

Arthur stares back at him, stunned, for a moment, while Eames looks down at himself, horrified. Then Arthur laughs in spite of himself, which sets Eames off in response, until he’s pulling Arthur up, wiping his face with the open tail of his shirt, kissing away the last spatters of his own come. “Sorry, darling, sorry,” Eames murmurs, still laughing. “I tried to warn you. Come on, c’mere, do me--it’s only fair.” He lies back on the carpet again and tugs Arthur all the way up, his knees bracketing Eames’ head, sitting on Eames’ chest, Eames’ fingers already fumbling his flies.

Arthur’s eyes go dark, half-lidded as he realizes what Eames is doing, what Eames wants him to do. “Yeah,” he mutters, half to himself. “You want this, don’t you? You want to know it, want me to own you, want me to mark you so you’re always mine. I can do that, fuck. I’m gonna do that. Open your fucking mouth,” he hisses, and Eames does, drunk on the way Arthur sounds when he does this, the total turn-around from dozy cuddling Arthur to this, to absolutely owning Eames. He keeps up a litany of curses as he slides into Eames’ waiting mouth, filthier than Eames had ever expected before and just what he wants to hear now, even if his brain does tune it out in order to focus exclusively on the expert sucking of Arthur’s cock--at least as well as is feasible when one’s mouth is also being fucked. He sucks, and sucks, and relaxes his throat and--memorably--lets his teeth graze the underside of Arthur’s cock, once, until Arthur hisses and glares down at him. It’s gorgeous, glorious, Arthur looming above him, pistoning his hips until Eames can feel the head of his cock at the back of his throat every time Arthur thrusts back in, gaining momentum along with the harsh pant of Arthur’s breath. Just when Eames thinks that’s it, Arthur’s going to forget, and prepares to suck and swallow--Arthur pulls out, a hand on himself, jacking until he does come on Eames’ face, deliberately, gleefully, grinning as Eames shuts his eyes and lifts his chin and takes it all.

“Fuck,” Arthur whispers. “What the fuck, Eames, you kinky little shit.” Eames just grins, come still all over his face. Arthur sighs. “Hold on, I’ll get a towel. Don’t strain yourself, old man.”

“What? You’re not going to lick it off my face, be my Noah?” He grins up at the Arthur-shaped shadow that kneels above him. Arthur rolls his eyes.

“We’re not watching that movie tonight, Eames. Besides--come is not ice cream. Sit up.”

Eames does, lifting his face for the warm washcloth and the sweet kiss that follows it.

“Fine,” he says. “But does this mean we can watch _Goldfinger_ instead?”

 

 

“C’mon, Eames,” Arthur says, running a hand through Eames’ hair. “You slept through the end, again.”

“Know what happens,” Eames mumbles, from his comfortable place on top of Arthur’s chest. “Nicer here.”

“Not for long. Have to move, work in the morning. For you, too.”

Eames scrunches his nose, rubbing his cheek against Arthur’s shirt. “Fine,” he says. “But only if you fuck me when we get there.”

“Again? Eames, I am impressed.”

“Yeah, well. Might as well get in another round, I’m not getting any younger.”

Arthur just kisses the top of his head, pushes him upright, and walks him to the bedroom, smiling all the while with those dimples Eames likes. They undress the rest of the way--not that they’ve worn much in the way of clothes all day--and when they climb into bed Eames throws a leg over Arthur’s hip and says, “Like this. Want to see you.”

“Okay,” Arthur says, slicking his hand, pressing in. “Okay?” he repeats, asking this time, forehead pressed to Eames’.

“Okay, Arthur,” Eames says, lipping at Arthur’s eyelid. Better than okay, he thinks as Arthur’s sliding in, thrusting shallowly, his eyes never leaving Eames’. Much better, he thinks as they kiss, fucking quiet and lazy until they both shudder into each other. The best, he thinks as he curls into Arthur’s arms, tucks his nose under Arthur’s chin.

“Go to sleep, Mr Eames,” Arthur mumbles.

“Yeah, darling.” I love you, too.


End file.
